


You've Been Ever So Kind

by CBlue



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, No Plot, Pining, Road Trip!, They Don't Get Together Though, and kind of a case fic?, except no, kind of, monster hunting, no beta either, nothing happens in this except pining actually, roach is best girl, some maybe game accurate suggestions of monster hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26992468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: “We were supposed take a scenic route through Erlenwald, not take upfourof our traveling days hunting-” he cut himself off, a furrow setting into his brow as he squinted toward the tracks that lay in front of Geralt. “What exactly are we hunting again?”“A garkain.” Geralt spoke thoughtfully. “Possibly a fleder.”~~~~~~~~~~~More pointless, plotless ficlet for my Witcher Writer's Circle Bingo!! This prompt was Road Trip!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	You've Been Ever So Kind

**Author's Note:**

> I still have more prompts to fill out (and I'm open to almost any prompts too in general) over at [corancoranthemagicalman](https://corancoranthemagicalman.tumblr.com/post/631882507971870720/as-part-of-the-witchers-writer-circle-discord)

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier whined. “I am _sweating_ like a paid lady in a temple!” He pouted, fanning himself with some tool of an Eastern design that Geralt was not familiar with. The bard cupped his hand over his brow with the opposite hand not already preoccupied with the fan in order to shield his eyes from the overbearing sun.

The witcher hummed, turning to face Jaskier for a moment and then returning his gaze unto the tracks before him. “You were the one who wanted to come this far south.” Geralt spared Jaskier another look. “Something about a contest in Maecht?”

Huffing, Jaskier placed his hand on his hip, standing with his body cocked in that lusty display of his. His collar undone and jacket long-forgotten leaving a glimpse of glittering skin crying out against the heat in revolt. “Yes, go out to Maecht, perhaps take a scenic route through Erlenwald, not take up _four_ of our traveling days hunting-” he cut himself off, a furrow setting into his brow as he squinted toward the tracks that lay in front of Geralt. “What exactly are we hunting again?”

“A garkain.” Geralt spoke thoughtfully, examining the trail that had long since washed away from rain. A body had been dragged, most likely the pig farmer’s son if how recent the track appeared to be was any indication. “Possibly a fleder.”

“Ah,” Jaskier stepped closer, crouching beside Geralt. “Fliers, eh? Do you have any of that funny smelling poison you imbibe on a regular basis or shall we be hoping you are fast on your feet this evening?”

Geralt exhaled slowly, turning to look at Jaskier beside him before standing. “I haven’t encountered enough ghouls or mages for that.” He strode toward Roach, rummaging through the side bag just to ensure he recalled his stock correctly.

Jaskier clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Drat. Speed and prayer it is then.” Humming the tune he had been writing since they passed through Cintra, Jaskier reached into the opposite side bag, trying to sneakily feed Roach another treat.

“Jaskier,” he reprimanded. “Within the hour you have given her thrice as many treats.”

“She deserves it!” Jaskier defended. “At least if you are going to drag your poor horse and bard out into the hot wilderness, you would allow your best girl to be spoiled in compensation.”

Geralt shook his head, replacing what bottles he had removed in his counting. Affectionately, Roach butt her head to his own. The witcher hummed in response before looking toward the sky and marking the hour. “We’ll travel further. Find a better spot for you and Roach.”

Pouting, Jaskier peered around Roach’s frame to bear his eyes unto Geralt. “Oh, come on! First, you won’t spoil your horse and now you won’t spoil me? How am I to come up with the ballads of your deeds if I can’t _be_ there?”

“You’re never accurate anyway.” Geralt allowed himself the smirk, raising his eyebrow in challenge toward the bard’s antics.

“Of course not! Artistic liberties must be taken when unpoetic witchers recite their monster hunting deeds to me.” Jaskier argued primly. “But if I were to be there, then I promise I shall be utterly faithful in my retelling of the occurrence.”

At that, Geralt bore an unimpressed look, turning from Jaskier and grasping at Roach’s reins. “And what of Posada? The Valley and the elves? Where was your faithful retelling then?”

Jaskier was quiet for a moment, more so than Geralt had expected from the barb. The bickering was their _modus operandi._ They had functioned this way for as long as Geralt had grown familiar with the bard, and Jaskier never hesitated to meet Geralt tit for tat. Furrowing his brow, Geralt halted Roach with a gentle tug and turned back to face Jaskier.

“Jaskier?” Geralt called for the bard, hoping to glean what had caused that distant look to befall him.

The bard looked far away, eyes almost the color of cream and blue irises dimmed. “Well, respect doesn’t quite make history, my friend.” Jaskier’s bardic beam replaced whatever peculiar look had found its way onto his features. “But inconsequential hunts? What noble man and fairing lady would _not_ want the most gruesome of details?”

Rolling his eyes, Geralt tugged Roach along, being to trek further into the woodland and closer to where the pig farmer’s son had been found. “Unless you wish to be bitten and turned into a fleder, I should think staying behind is the best.”

“Oh, nonsense, Geralt,” Jaskier huffed loudly, increasing his stride until he could match Geralt’s pace on the opposite side of Roach. “ _You_ were the one to correct me that a fleder’s bite does not turn a man into a fleder himself.” He laughed good-heartedly. “Don’t try to use the common man’s untruth that I once adhered to on me now.”

Jaskier’s smiled tucked away for a moment, brashness and blatant displays forgotten. “I am a different man now that I know you, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt hummed, turning away from Jaskier’s heavy gaze. “Not _that_ different.” He teased lightly, watching Jaskier splutter from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, I see how it is.” Jaskier harrumphed, crossing his arms over his chest as he walked. “Well, see if I invite you next time on this little road trip.”

“The last I knew of it, it was my horse you hung your lute on.” Geralt raised a brow once more toward Jaskier. “I think it is _you_ who are hitchhiking.”

Jaskier scoffed a laugh, grin widening as he gestured with his hands widely. “No, no, no my fair witcher. If it were not for _me,_ you would not be marching toward Maecht. You would be happily sequestered to some other range more North where the monsters are many and the Gwent is good.” The bard challenged and rightfully so because it was true. Had it not been for Jaskier’s request that Geralt accompany him to Maecht, he would currently be holed up in some tavern having just finished a simple hunt and engaging in a game with people who could barely hold their cards from how drunk they were.

Instead, now Geralt was traveling across the Continent toward the South, taking pause for this contract on some lesser vampire. Though, if Geralt were to meditate on those thoughts too much, he would perhaps find that there were many things he would have not done had it not been at the insistence of Jaskier.

A barely audible grunt left Geralt’s tightened lips, his only acknowledgment of what Jaskier said and a common response from the witcher when he knew he had been beaten in their battle of wits. He urged Roach on faster, watching as the afternoon slowly began to bleed into dusk. “The hunt shouldn’t take long.” He answered instead. “We should be back into town for the bounty by morning.”

Geralt moved, anchoring Roach to a tree and ensuring that her reins were secure against the bark. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Jaskier moved his weight from foot to foot as if he were unsettled. Once Geralt had finished his matters with Roach, he reached for the Vampire Oil that was stored with his potions and poisons. He moved to the center of the small opening in the treeline that he would leave Roach and Jaskier too.

He sat, unsheathing his silver sword, and uncapping the oil. Suddenly, a rag was blocking his field of vision. Said rag was held aloft by Jaskier, bent over to keep at eye level with Geralt as the bard stood and the witcher sat. Humming his thanks, Geralt took the rag from Jaskier’s grasp and began his work. Quietly and without word, Jaskier moved to Roach’s side, undoing the ties of his lute and striding back gently to stand before Geralt.

The bard sat, plucking at the strings of his lute with care as Geralt bathed his blade in oil across from him. A swab of oil, a song from the lute. A drip of the oil, a slide of fingers across strings. In tandem they worked, each with a set goal, in the piece of that small wood. Erlenwald was known for its peaceful travels. As soon as Geralt had ridden this area of woods of its vampire, travelers and townsfolk could once more forget that monsters stalked the Continent, always roaming.

Witchers were much like monsters in that regard. They had their preferred hunting grounds, kept to their routines. They were made for killing, for surviving, for hunting. Witchers and monsters alike moved as needed. Moved to feed, to kill, to survive. It was not an unusual thought for Geralt to have, that reminder that witchers were more like monsters than men. It was simply the way of this world; what Geralt had been made for.

“I sometimes think I’m like a monster.” Jaskier’s voice broke through Geralt’s melancholy reverie. “I wander the Continent, searching for my feasts.” He smiled toward Geralt. “But perhaps all those who feel wanderlust are like monsters in search of the grounds they hunt and the victims they wish to claim.”

“Victims?” Geralt questioned, pausing in his motions of coating the blade. The rag held at just the tip of his silvered sword. Silver for monsters; steel for men.

Jaskier nodded, turning his attentions back to his lute. “Monsters, they eat people in the most literal sense. Bards, however, we feast on people’s attention. Artists want to consume people, for people to be consumed by their work. It’s a World of angry monsters with something much larger than yourself always wishing to feast on your flesh and heart.” Pausing in thought, reaching skyward with naught but his eyes, Jaskier hummed once more. “I suppose that means every living thing is like a monster. Travel. Consume. Move on.”

Geralt furrowed his brow, moving the rag along the blade once more before pausing. “And what of those who do not move? Those who stay and grow old and happy?”

“They are prey for monsters.” Jaskier shrugged, never meeting Geralt’s gaze as he continued. “You’re either a monster or you’re prey.”

“Hmm,” Geralt corked the bottle of oil again, finishing with the bathing and admiring the gleam of the blade. “You of all people should know the World is made up of more than black and white, Jaskier.” He set his gaze to Jaskier, waiting until the bard turned to look at him before continuing. “You do not have to be either prey or monster.”

Jaskier’s heart beat steadily for a moment until his eyes widened, He laughed at himself, shaking his head. “Of course. Forgive me, Geralt.” The bard smiled, returning to playing the tune he had been writing. “For witchers do not consume as monsters do and are guardians of prey. In this World, there are prey and monsters and witchers.” Jaskier spoke simply, continuing with his work as if the distinction were obvious and he was foolish to have omitted it.

Standing with his blade in hand, oil and rag forgotten on the woodland floor, Geralt watched as Jaskier played. The song had begun to come alive some few days back before they had reached Erlenwald’s borders. Now there was a hum, a signaling reminder that soon there were to be words gifted to this silent ballad. Tightening his hand on his silver blade, Geralt marched into the woods in hunt of his vampire.

“The best of luck, Geralt,” Jaskier called to his retreating form, making no other argument of joining him on the hunt. The witcher paused in his movements, turning to look over his shoulder and watch as the bard continued to play.

Inhaling sharply, Geralt spoke gently. “You’ve forgotten something, bard.”

He could hear Jaskier stand, almost imagine his curious face peering out into the slowly growing darkness. “Oh? And what have I forgotten, witcher dear?”

“There are bards.” Geralt spoke out gently, not daring to turn to face Jaskier. “Bards who are consumed by the hunt and consume the prey. Who hold sway over history and fashion. Who are brave enough to venture forth in a world of prey and monsters and witchers.” The witcher flexed his fingers around the hilt of the blade. When there was no response from the bard behind him, Geralt grunted before marching into the woods.

Although Geralt could not see it, behind him in the clearing stood a bard. A bard whose smile was small but blooming like a moonflower. Blue eyes that followed him until they could no longer tell his frame from a shadow. Hands that twitched and words that would not be said but would trail behind Geralt of Rivia regardless. A heart that was grateful for a road trip across the Continent with said witcher.


End file.
